Wissenschaftler
by appleschan
Summary: Rukia found an oddity, a journal that can write itself. Ichigo found something annoying, a canvass that can paint itself. And the Cosmos found persons to play with, these two.
1. brücke

_Disclaimer:_I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme:_Vintage-Shabby Chic. Einstein-Rosen Bridge.

_Warning:_ Idea inspired by two films I haven't seen, _Ditto_ (South Korea) and _Somewhere in Time_(US). Rated K. ooc/au.

_Chapter Word Count:_ 5,037

_Summary:_Rukia found an oddity, a journal that can write itself. Ichigo found something annoying, a canvass that can paint itself. And the Cosmos found persons to play with, these two.

**Wissenschaftler**

I

brücke

…**o0o…o0o…o0o…**

Kuchiki Rukia found a journal that kept on writing itself. _Literally_.

That, in itself, was plain absurdity.

For the past nineteen years of living, there was nothing too out of ordinary that ever happened to her. Thank you very much.

Rukia was quietly proud of her achievements, as little as it may be. As simple as successfully owning a little –big, really- antique mansion on a hill-top in an _okay_ city and attending her second semester in an _okay_ university. She is the sister of a business magnate, hardly _okay_ for someone living a fairly normal life.

What was not normal, however, was walking tirelessly until noon to find someone to explain this self-sufficient journal –really, Rukia could not think of another word for it. The journal was just simply _self-sufficient_.

And unfortunately, it was the same word that she had no choice but to use when people inquired about it.

Except the Karakura University history professor.

He's the third professor and the seventh person Rukia visited and the first person who did not scowl at her.

Earlier, she approached the University physicist after talking to the Literature professor did not work. She asked the same question about its very peculiar condition and was met with almost identical reply from the Literature professor.

'_Unless you somehow found a way to break Physics -which I highly doubt, so it's a no. It's not possible_.'

The History professor, on the other hand, actually listened and considered her question. He asked to examine the pages for a few hours. Rukia agreed to wait.

The journal had no tag, so she could not figure out the maker –at least, there was nothing visible. Rukia initially walked around and visited places, antique shops and publishing houses in blind hope. But everyone gave her The Scowl then The Laugh. They all thought it is crazy –_it is crazy_. The experts in the University became her last resort.

Wrapped in comfortable knee-length, yellow sundress beneath a thin beige blazer, Rukia hawked the University premise while waiting. Her plain shoes clunked inaudibly against the fifty-year old pavement lining the animated hallway of the building.

Like every other old building in the city, the University was made the same year Karakura was given enough government entity to be declared a city, 1974. And it was the _same_ year that consistently appeared on the first page up to the _latest_ journal page –really, Rukia cannot say _last_ page. The journal notes all have dates that match to the present dates except that the year noted was forty years ago.

The latest journal entry was October 25th of 1974. It's October 25, 2014 today.

The first time she discovered that an old notebook sat inside one of the drawers of an old dresser, she dismissed it completely, and thought it was nothing, just a simple memoir –that was three days ago.

The second time was when she went to put up boxes in the attic and thought she could use the drawer to store old sheets. She saw the journal again, neat and dusty in its original position. Out of curiosity, she read the notebook and finished it completely after a thirty-minute, _disappointing_ read –the diarist was _severely_ talented. She flipped the pages numerous times, looking for more but it ended in a rushed line about morning breakfast and bad weather. Rukia never knew what happened to the eloquent diarist's rainy day in 1974. She did, however, accidentally left it propped open atop the old Chesterfield couch when she hurried downstairs. Apparently, she heard a barely audible _meow_ and thought a stray cat got in one of the rooms. And she did not remember to come back and put the journal back in its drawer.

The third time was just the night before, the time when she went back to store old pillows and saw the journal was nowhere in sight. Baffled, she checked the drawer and saw that it was back inside, not where she left it. Curious, she read it again and found out that the entries advanced two more pages, and she _thought_ she finished all of it, she found out that the rainy day in 1974 was a particularly exhausting, arduous work day for the diarist; there was an accident and that the diarist had to work overnight. Confused, she dismissed it completely, put it back in its drawer and left it again. She must be dreaming. She could always go back and check the next morning.

She did and it added five new entries with same dates but different times. She remembered how she held that leather-bound journal like it was a cliché cursed object like those in films. She learned –rather horrified at the context on _how_ she learned it- that exhausting rainy day in 1974 was followed by a dinner with the neighbors as a form of gratitude; the diarist did not supply any more details.

Seriously at loss for explanation and utterly bewildered, Rukia wanted to dissect the journal right then and find out exactly how. After few useless minutes of contemplating and digesting that it really happened, she decided against it, unfortunately, she still had to attend classes. She left it alone for another day but not after double-checking all the locks in her place.

Seriously disturbed and badly curious, the incident plagued her that day. Rukia suspected outsiders but how could that happen? She suspected ghost, but that was just absurd. She suspected a prank, but who would do that? She's alone in the house.

The fifth time was this morning, it advanced another page. It was also the final shove.

If only she had not witnessed the journal's consistent addition of entries and its cryptic method, she probably won't mind that one of the previous owners left a little diary in her attic; it would be harmless in her eyes.

And now, an hour passed since she stepped inside the forty-year old University and thirty minutes since she handed the professor the journal for examination.

"Kuchiki."

Rukia turned. The professor was back, waving and smiling pleasantly at her from the door way. He's the white-haired, good-natured history professor wearing a semi-formal dress shirt and pants without the jacket. He was once sick with respiratory disease but was fortunately deemed cured to be able to teach again.

Rukia took measured steps towards him and bowed slightly when she reached him. He was her favorite. Rukia was actually surprised that he agreed to her request; he just came back from his family's 40th death anniversary. She knew -everyone knew actually- that this adored professor's family died in a tragic way, courtesy of an unfortunate weather condition. And many are thankful that he retained a positive outlook and remained humble.

"Good afternoon again, Kuchiki. How do you do?" He asked pleasantly, with a smile that revealed the faintest of the lines in his face. For a forty-something,

"I am fine, Ukitake-sensei. Thank you for asking." Rukia replied politely, sporting a thin smile that barely reached an inch from the edge of her lips. She hoped that he found something.

Not wasting a single second, she begun to ask. "Ukitake-sensei, did you-?"

"Whoa! Hold-up Kuchiki," He held his hands up, "before any of that, how would you like to come inside my office and have some tea?"

"Eh?" Rukia looked back in forth from his raised hands to the inside of his office with a waiting pot of tea and cakes.

The history professor smiled softly at her and explained. "I didn't know that Shunsui-sensei was not very fond with this flavor of tea I bought, you see. I got more supply than I can consume, it became quite a problem. Would you like to help me, Kuchiki?"

"I -I…I'm not really sure, Ukitake-sensei-" Rukia replied hesitantly, thinking about her new home and its locks. What if the diarist was an intruder?

"And I think I have some cake pops, would you like to try some?" The genial professor smile grew wider.

"Um-" Rukia's eyes swerved to the side and behind him, she noticed that the journal was also there, beside the decorated tea china set and plate of cakes.

"Good!"

…

_Some_ wasn't exactly the word. Rukia remembered being stuffed with heavy cakes and ridiculous amount of Jasmine tea. She remembered Kyouraku-sensei joined them halfway during a conversation about politics and rubber ducks. The newly arrived professor did not like the tea, he brought his own. A special kind of mixed, potent sort-of drink –he said he's not allowed to say and drink it during scheduled class hours. And there was a disapproving, reprimanding comment from the history professor to which Kyouraku-sensei replied a smooth '_loosen up'_. It was past Kyouraku-sensei teaching schedule, Rukia supposed he's technically 'allowed' to drink in school.

The conversation was long-winded, mostly about random things _yet_ when they finally got to the subject of the journal, it bore Rukia important discoveries.

The ink used was from a pen with exclusive and very limited production in 1974, the journal itself was made by a prominent family that once owned a small paper industry business, and that the journal entry was freshly written. Yet the professor could not tell her whom the actual writings belong to.

And when Rukia asked how approximately '_fresh'_ was freshly written.

Ukitake Jushiro, the History professor and Diplomatics expert answered her, _'Just this morning_.'

.

.

.

…**o0o…**

_October 25th of 1974_

Kurosaki Ichigo waited patiently for the hour to finally end. It was afternoon. Chilly, bleak, slightly dimmer than usual and the _koyo_ –the autumn leaves- were just everywhere. It could have been pretty in its desolation.

Yet Ichigo watched grumpily from the smudgy glass window of their business place. His scowl was extra hard, and so was the extra thinning of his mouth.

Ichigo's journal went missing today.

His new leather-bound journal was just resting inside the drawer of his mother's old cabinet, in the attic, safe in its wooden container. No one knew its existence because nobody wanted to stay in the attic to kill time. No one, except him. He would go to the attic in his free times, he always brought with him an oil lamp that he kept in his room and he would simply write, just write until the need for it extinguished itself.

So Ichigo, not bored and impatient, tapped the stool adjacent to his seat edgily with light, short strokes and groaned in frustration when his heel repeatedly scrapped the marble floor.

All day, the lost of his journal plagued him. Who? Seriously, who would steal something like that? Karin and Yuzu certainly won't touch it; they didn't even know that he owned one. Even as a prank, Karin knew what his privacy meant to him, she wouldn't dare hide it. And Yuzu, if ever she came across it, she'll probably dust the non-existent dust and put it back. His father was nowhere in sight, out for a talk with the man that owned a construction company.

There is dread of course, an annoyed feeling he could not shake off. His missing journal meant that someone was reading his thoughts.

It only started acting like this, reappearing and disappearing during these last three days. It will always reappear, no matter what. That, he could accept. However, it completely vanished during the mid-morning and he had no idea why. Kon could have carried it somewhere, but that's impossible.

Suddenly his sister, Yuzu, called from the second floor. "Ichi-nii, have you seen Bostafu?"

Ichigo stopped for a minute, he was quite sure he caught a glimpse of orange at the corner of his eyes an hour ago but quickly dismissed the thought as he looked around the dim room again and saw nothing.

"No. Sorry, Yuzu."

The sisters of the Kurosaki household, Yuzu and Karin, liked to bring their family pet Kon -which Yuzu named Bostafu as a personal pet name- with them whenever they visit their funerary located in the town outskirts for two completely different reasons, Yuzu said it was to bring some color and add some cuteness, Karin thought she could use some small monster to scare flies and insects in the field behind the building where she often practice her soccer moves.

"Oh? Oh right, maybe he wondered to the garden again…I think he developed a taste for bees and flies. Ooh, that's dangerous, I should find him and go home…"

Ichigo imagined the worried look on Yuzu and thought he should probably do the find the cat himself.

"Go home, I'll find him later." He yelled back.

Then he heard Yuzu's delighted squeal upstairs. "Really? Oh thank goodness, I just remembered I have to make a quick run to the grocery…Oh dear, I should get going."

"Yeah…"

Ichigo's stare went back to the wall to wall glass window in front of him, it was now past-five and most people are on their way home.

Most people don't die during autumn. It wasn't based on some statistically relevant study but more like an observation gleaned from years of working part-time in a family-owned funeral service. They _do_ die during the winter, at least, most do.

However, two days ago, there was an accident due to the very bad, rainy weather. It was a family of seven, six died and indeed, it was the busiest and most draining day in their family-owned funeral service. One survived, a little boy sick with respiratory disease.

The boy survived because luckily, Ichigo happened to be there. Ichigo was walking in the sidewalk when he heard a loud crash, he ran and turned a corner to see a small boy coughing and bleeding profusely. Fortunately, he knew how to run first aid. The boy turned out to be a relative of one of their family-friends and their family, except Isshin, who was still in another town, was invited for a simple dinner. Ichigo thought it was awkward and sad, he did not enjoy it.

Weirdly, the gloom stayed with them.

Kurosaki Ichigo led a normal young adult life.

Ichigo was too tall and too lean for a young man of twenty-one years, and too grumpy for his young age. The color of his hair was too bright, too easily seen against the off-white concrete walls of the small town's neighborhood, too attention-grabbing that young thugs like to pick a fight with him regularly. The petulant scowl on his face was too prominent –too grumpy- that only a handful of people knew he was really a good boy –the rest presumed otherwise.

The good boy with the bad scowl –the far-flung neighbors often said. Far-flung because they live in a mansion on top of a hill far from neighbors, they are the strangers of the small and relatively quiet town of Karakura. People hardly knew them personally, but they knew about their heritage. It was the only gossip that managed to spark the interest of the dull town of Karakura years before, their mother happened to be the daughter of a powerful German official and she run off with another man, his father.

Some thought of really creative versions and some are downright ridiculous or sappy. Even he and his sisters do not actually know the real story and they never asked, they understood it as an intimate secret between their parents. Though one thing was for sure, they will never hear the story from their mother, because she was already dead.

It was six when Ichigo stood up and with one last glance at the streets, he rolled down the window covers. No one died today. Good.

Ichigo locked all the windows and doors, made sure of security measures and notified the rest of the persons working in the funerary before grabbing his jacket. When Ichigo walked out the door, he hoped to see his journal back in its place.

.

.

.

…**o0o…**

_October 25, 2014_, 11:58 pm

Out of irritation, Rukia decided to stay overnight to try and catch the mysterious journal writer. Ghost or prankster. Whatever. Whoever.

Rukia sat uncomfortably in front of her makeshift desk of old wood pile, she was at the far left corner of the big attic, beside the small circular window and planks of blank canvasses. The odd journal was in front of her, opened at the latest page. She brought a lamp with her, a rusty and old yet perfectly working lamp that she found in her new room.

Rukia focused her attention on the journal, her face scrunched up in concentration reserved for a killer University entrance examination test. There, in the _latest_ page, written in a fading black script on the wrinkly yellowish paper, _5:35 am_.

18 hours ago.

Today and too early, she thought wryly. All the pages have a fixed gap of nine hours, from the very early 5 am, and then it will stop at 8 am. It will come back at 6 pm, then random times up to 11 pm. The journal writer clearly had something to busy himself with during daylight –he was either working or attending classes.

Surprisingly, the writer seemed to be of male group. For a diary, the unexpected eloquence read like a female reminiscing her wedding night but not riddled with overblown adjectives. The writer talked about his family. The Mother, mostly. His mother, obviously. As if the tender words directed to the mother wasn't much of a giveaway. The diarist was absolutely fond of his sisters, Rukia read how much the one twin differed from the other twin, the contrast was softly written by the diarist. The father of the family, the diarist's father, to Rukia's understanding, was a peculiar and infectiously happy man. The diarist wrote his father like he was irritated with his father's antics, but Rukia detected the subtlety of…caring and gratefulness in his superficial harsh words. The diarist loved his family so much.

But then, regardless whatever kind of entity the writer was, he's certainly unwelcome.

If what Ukitake-Sensei said was true, then there's someone else on her house, or a presence. There's a diarist ghost in the house. That she could accept. A prankster? Depends. A thief? Not good.

Somehow, the possibility of a thief made no sense to her. Why steal now?

It was not even a week ago when she moved here, alone. A week ago, Rukia was –reluctantly- on her way to Business School abroad instead of, as cliché as it sound, Art. But _something_ else happened. It was a turning point, swiftly influenced by the _least_ person she expected, but impactful enough to make her abandon the joyless decision. She will be forever grateful to that person.

Four days ago, Rukia found herself wondering, she briefly wondered if she would have to settle in a standard dorm room and be found easily. Fortunately, Rukia found an available decent house with a decent price for her use. Unfortunately, the house came in with a number of odd objects easily identified with cliché horror films.

It was quite a large house, five bedrooms, with garage and garden, double kitchen. It was antique as well. The mansion was on a decent condition, with barely peeling walls, none of the flooring had a hole in them and most of the fixtures were preserved.

The house attic was, of course, another story. It's like a part completely detached from the rest of the house, it was airy, musty and separated by a lock-less trapdoor.

Due to her diminutive size and belongings; she was only occupying a small part of the house. And she had to admit, it was quite lonely. Before she went to talk to Ukitake-sensei, she briefly wondered if the journal was a hallucination. Partly because during her visit, she could hear animals she could not see.

Like few minutes ago, she heard several stray animals on her way up, the birds would go '_chirp, chirp_' followed by a loud '_meow, meow'_ then another batch of '_chirp, chirp'_. Fortunately, she heard no '_hiss, hiss'_. She wouldn't exactly call them stray animals –are birds stray animals? Maybe the cat, but she couldn't see it at the moment. What she could see, however, was a silhouette of an antique drawer with Victorian carvings and peeling white paint. That was definitely not a hallucination.

Rukia was not afraid of the dark, she looked around the attic, this is her sixth visit. She seriously considered selling the antique items, her Kuchiki-business learning kicked in, they would make great props for a horror film.

There's a dirty, smudgy salon-stand, chipped mirror in front of the trapdoor. The mirror was so dirty that Rukia could barely see any reflection except an extremely blurry and extremely distorted version of her face. A black and gold-rimmed candlestick-type telephone with a round dial rest on top of a circular wooden table –Rukia doubted the antique's functionality, it lacked the modern wires; it will never work. There are worn-out, blank canvasses that rest near the circular window high on the left side. There's an open, dusty brown suitcase on top of the drawer beside the large mirror. The suitcase was relatively empty save for a number of a famous diarist's works and a –what looked like- dried sunflower peeking from one of the book's sides; the flower was used as a bookmark. An empty, large black birdcage stood near the small circular window. On the right side of the attic was a torn, brown Chesterfield couch, directly facing the Victorian drawer. Beside the suitcase was a lone, empty rifle gun steel case with barely visible rusty embossed letters that read '_Taganrog, Russia. Pavlovich, 1860'_ on its steel box.

And then there's the most unusual and creepiest habitant of the house attic: an old wedding dress laid-out in a cherry wood sofa. The lace fabric, untouched and unmoved for a number of decades, was covered by an inch thick layer of dust and mites.

Rukia left it as it is. The room looked like a haunting area. Rukia couldn't believe that she would like to spend the night here with nothing but her rusty, old oil lamp and odd journal.

Before she moved in, she learned that the previous family that lived here owned a funeral service, it closed down two decades ago. Also, the realtor did say someone in the previous family owner had German roots. Apparently, the matriarch of the family was the runaway daughter of a German official.

It was now 12:37 am of October 26, 2014. And nothing was showing on the journal. Rukia heaved a disappointed sigh.

She will wait until morning then. Wide-awake, make no mistake.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

**...0…**

_October 25th__of 1974, 8:00 pm_

Ichigo went up to the attic shortly after dinner. _Kon_, their overlarge orange Maine Coon cat, was also with him. Ichigo saw their cat, idle in their garden –house garden, not the field behind the building of their business. He found the furry cat sitting on the dahlia flower bed that Yuzu painstakingly took care of for these past months.

He did not brought with him his trusty oil lamp, as he figured there would be no need for any form of light if he were to catch the…_thief_. Was someone really toying with him?

Ichigo, upon arriving two hours ago, fully expected the reemergence of his journal back in its drawer. However, an empty space greeted him. It was officially gone for fifteen hours. In annoyance, Ichigo decided to spend the night in the attic.

This part of the house was considerably high. There were small round windows lining the polished wood planks. And the only way here was directly through the trapdoor. Of which, he will spend the whole night guarding.

He angled the brand new –and admittedly hideous- Chesterfield couch from the Victorian drawer towards the trapdoor. Ichigo supposed that if the person turned out to be a dangerous maniac or a thief, there's always Anton'strusty old rifle that hung in the wall for defensive purposes.

So Ichigo sat in the couch, uncomfortably so. It was so dark, only the beams of moonlight that managed to pass through the small hinges in the wood work illuminated the attic.

This attic was supposed to be a storage room. There were blank canvasses and cans of dried paints and a set of charcoal pen. It was his mother's previous belongings. His mother's prized drawer, and the bird cage that she liked so much.

Two hours passed and still nothing, the trapdoor did not creak, not even a slight hinge. And Ichigo was slowly growing tired. When was the thief coming out?

A few more minutes and Ichigo fell asleep, awkward and cramped in the couch, the old Russian's gun still in his hands.

…**0…**

_October 26, 2014_

Rukia woke up to a sound of a cat softly mewling. Rukia reached for eyes, and glanced at the journal, _still nothing_. Rukia stood up and dusted herself, she shouldn't have worn a white nightgown. Rukia stretched her kinked muscles; she, unfortunately, slept on a fetal position.

It was three in the morning, and it was not too cold. To wake herself up, Rukia walked around the attic quietly, exercising her slightly numb legs. She walked around the attic like a ghost, briefly touching some dusty objects. She did not, however, noticed the slight dent on the chesterfield couch.

The moonlight filtered through the hinge wood planes. And through those moonlight beams, Rukia's eyes fell on the stack of dusty, blank canvass on the left side of the attic.

Partly the reason she took up the house was because of its state, its heritage and the amount of inspiration she could take from it.

And most importantly, it was the silence and peace of being left alone to work quietly.

Rukia carefully tiptoed towards the canvasses, re-positioned the oil lamp beside the antique telephone and picked up a stale charcoal.

…**0…**

_October 26th__of 1974_

It was morning and Kon the cat apparently –once again- let himself in through the unlocked trapdoor.

Ichigo knew, certainly he did, because the damn cat jumped squarely on his face. Then jumped back down and went straight to the mirror and scratched relentlessly at its surface.

Ichigo watched the cat meow and scratch the mirror quite loud. "_Miiieoow_"

It's Loud, very loud.

"_Meow_."

"Shut it, cat." Ichigo snapped sleepily, the cat ignored his tone.

_''Meow_.''

_''Kon_.'' Ichigo stood up, took Kon with one easy swipe and held the large cat in eye-level. ''Don't come here, you understand?"

''_Maaaw_.''

"Go back downstairs."

Ichigo put the large orange cat down and nudged him with his foot towards the trapdoor. However, the cat stayed and his large brown, beady eyes glaring at him

_''Maaaaaaaw_."

Ichigo nudged Kon with his foot slightly harder. "Go."

The cat stayed where it was, its tail high in the air, and one large paw up in the air.

_''Maaaaaaaaaw_."

"Kon!" He nudged him again.

"_Qwiiisssssss_!"

The large orange cat pounced on Ichigo, clawed his ankle twice, "Ow -you!" and ran back to the dusty mirror and hid itself behind the new and large mirror, hissing angrily at him.

"_Qwiiissssssssssss!_"

"What is wrong with you?" Ichigo asked in frustration, well-aware how weird he must be, talking to no one in particular. He nursed the little red strikes in his ankle, cursing the damn cat.

"_Qwiiiisssss!_"

He watched the cat looking like a miniature lion went back to his spot and scratched the mirror and then glared at him, as if daring him to come near him. "_Qwiiiisssss._"

Yuzu said she saw Kon staring at the mirror the day before with his tail swishing high in the air like he was waiting for something, she tried to hold him but he didn't budge.

"Don't make me shave you, you fat cat. I swear I'll pick your whiskers one by one-"

"_Qwiiss_."

"Ichi-nii, you and Kon have such wonderful friendship." Drawled Karin, peering from the trapdoor. "I wish you both stand the test of time."

"Karin! What are you doing here?!" Startled, Ichigo turned to her. His hair was tousled, and there were kinks in his back for sleeping in such uncomfortable position.

"It's breakfast, my dolt brother." Karin replied dryly. "You weren't answering your door, so I thought you might be here doing I-don't-want-to-know type of stuff."

"Karin-!"

However, Karin's attention suddenly shifted on something else. "Ichi-nii," Karin was looking at something behind him. "Did you do all that?"

"No-" Ichigo shook his head, but then. "What are you talking about?"

Karin looked at him, her eyebrows high. "That."

"What?" Ichigo turned.

"Just what…?"

Ichigo found the blank canvasses _drawn_ with images. Sketches formed by a stale charcoal.

The art was wasn't bad, it wasn't too great either. It was more like a practice work or a past-time.

"No way…" Ichigo mouthed and stepped closer.

"Well, I didn't know you have some serious painting talent, Ichi-nii." Karin laughed. "Breakfast downstairs." He heard the trapdoor closed. But he didn't turned to look at her.

There were three sketches; all of them had the same theme, winter. At the bottom, almost unrecognizable, were a signature and a date: _102614_. The signature was fourfold stroke of curved line that looked roughly like a butterfly.

Tracing the curves lines, he wondered, "2014?"

And really, those blank canvasses were his mother's.

Beside the canvass drawings, on the table with the brand-new telephone that they never got to install, was his oil lamp, the same oil lamp that he kept safely in his room. And opposite the table, resting on what looked like a makeshift desk of pile of wood was his previously missing leather-bound journal.

Ichigo felt dread. Someone was definitely here, someone spent time here while he was sleeping and he had no idea how or who or what. But it was definitely _something_ else, no one knew about his journal and the oil lamp.

He didn't have to think twice, he scrambled and tore a page from the journal hastily and picked up what's left of the charcoal and wrote words.

He stuck the note on the canvas. His words were written in a nice script, large and discernible.

'_Who are you?'_

…**o0O0o…**

_To be continued_

**Author's Note**

I got Science'd, it's a wormhole.

I really want to say das ende to this story soon.

Thanks for reading!

…

…

…

**Love me or Hate me?**

**Dissonencia.**


	2. gespräche

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme: _Vintage-Shabby Chic. Einstein-Rosen Bridge.

_Warning: _I don't think it's a three-shot anymore. ooc/au. Rating went up to T.

_Chapter Word Count:_ 2,108

_Summary: _Rukia found an oddity, a journal that can write itself. Ichigo found something annoying, a canvass that can paint itself. And the Cosmos found persons to play with, these two.

**Wissenschaftler**

II

_gespräche_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

_Someone was definitely here, someone spent time here while he was sleeping and he had no idea how or who or what. But it was definitely something else, no one knew about his journal and oil lamp._

_He didn't have to think twice, he scrambled and tore a page from the journal hastily and picked up what's left of the charcoal and wrote words. _

_He stuck a note on the canvas. His words were written in nice script, large and discernible. _

'_Who are you?'_

_._

_._

_._

**_…_o0o…**

It was mid morning when Rukia checked back at the attic and found the old Chesterfield couch angled _towards_ the square trapdoor and _not_ at the Victorian drawer where she _left_ it.

Rukia hurried towards the couch and eyed it suspiciously. She saw its dented seat and could only think of one thing; somebody was _physically_ here.

_What_?

Her heart was beating rapidly. She grabbed the nearest plank of wood and held it close in case of someone suddenly bursting out and attacking her. With pursed lips, Rukia hurriedly looked around and found nothing too grossly unusual except for the altered placements of furniture.

The re-arrangement of furniture and its obvious movements were very, very indicative of a real, live person. And Rukia sincerely hoped she was dreaming. Or that it was just a stupid prank.

Reluctantly, Rukia mentally crossed out the ghost diarist inhabiting her attic option on her list of suspects. Oh she preferred the ghost diarist instead of a real person.

It was then that Rukia briefly wondered if she should call some sort of assistance to search the place. Rukia continued to look around with longer looks on cranny places and careful steps.

But what stopped her in her track, what surprised her even more than the moving couch, was the presence of an old and crispy note on her freshly drawn canvass and the disappearance of the rusty oil lamp and the self-sufficient journal from the makeshift table where she left it hours ago.

Rukia carefully tiptoed towards the canvass with the note and wavered for a bit. But curiosity got the better of her, so she swallowed a nervous lump on her throat, reached for the note and hastily unstuck it.

The note was written in a fairly nice script though all capitals. 'WHO ARE YOU?'

'_Who are you_?' Rukia repeated, perplexed. She held the wood plank tighter. _What is this_? The intruder dare ask her? _Her_? The owner of the house?

Is this a prank?

But somehow, Rukia could sense a bit of apprehension from the note writer. But she quickly pushed the thought away as she examined its handwriting carefully. She was so sure it was that of the writer of the self sufficient journal. Heaving a frustrated sigh that sounded more like an annoyed groan, Rukia sat down on the dusty, old floor and examined the note further. She turned it over and looked for some unusual marks like blotches or any dates.

How could the journal writer be here? _And_, had the gall to actually ask her who she was?

Is this really a prank?

She noticed no sign of forced entry, the windows were all boarded up and there was no way the intruder-writer entered through the trapdoor –Rukia frequently checked on it.

Rukia won't take it at face value; there must be something deeper, unless, of course, it was just really a prank. But some things seemed real but at the same time, don't make logical sense.

Thinking it will somehow answer her questions, she wrote back, in a small script:

'_Rukia.'_

Followed by a '_Who are you and why are you in my house_?'

Rukia hoped for a peaceful interaction with the intruder –though that sounded insane.

Rukia stuck the crispy and old note back on the canvas just as she heard another soft _meow_ and her head turned to the direction of the extremely blurry and dirty mirror.

**…0…**

Ichigo slowly peeled the shiny and smooth note from the canvass with quivering hands. Somebody actually answered him, somebody actually wrote on the damn note back to him. What the hell?

_Rukia_ was nicely written in the note, small and bunched together. Underneath it was a slightly accusatory phrase that both baffled and annoyed him, _why are you in my house_?

_Why are you in my house_? Ichigo thought irritably. _In my house_?

"It's my house." He gritted out loud.

Ichigo stuck the note back in the canvass with a little more force than he should. _What the hell is happening? _

He slumped back in the couch, wondering if he should answer the girl –he was so sure _Rukia_ was a girl-sounding name- unless he read the note wrong and the creepy thief was really a boy and the name was actually Rukio or something.

But then, he thought carefully, _how could this happen_?

Disbelief in the unexplainable extraordinary was normal to him; he won't believe something until he had seen it with his own eyes -and not until he rubbed his eyes raw and red just to make sure that he wasn't seeing illusionary things. And yet, he was seeing the _very real_ painted canvass and note -with a written reply and a name- very clearly but still, he found it quite hard to believe his eyes.

_Is this real?_ Nobody could have made it past their gates and drew something on his mother's canvasses -and that made no sense.

Who would do this? Are his friends playing a prank on him? If this was not a prank, then normal people would panic at the thought of a stranger in their homes every night yet here he was, slumped in a chair.

Should he deem it as an immediate threat to his family? Is this really real? Did something happen while he was asleep?

And why? Why the hell would the thief claim this house as hers?

When asked this morning, Karin seemed innocent, he answered his questions with snarky, smooth remarks. And Yuzu, just no way. It could have been his father, maybe the old goat arrived earlier and decided to prank him. But no, his father's stupid pranks were usually perversion related.

It was afternoon when he got back, and it was after dinner when he discovered an answer to his note. He didn't expect the thief to be back so soon.

Ichigo stared at the note, what if he answered it?

'_Ichigo_.' He wrote carefully just beneath her question.

Ichigo thought for a moment and added, '_And it's not your house, it's mine. It is my house_.'

Then he added a lone phrase that he underlined several times, '_I don't know you_, so why are you in MY house?'

He hesitated for a bit before finally deciding to ask more questions. '_Tell me where you are. How did you find a way here? Why are you here? Why did you steal my journal? What do you want? Show yourself._'

**…0…**

When Rukia checked the attic again the next morning, she wasn't expecting a reply.

_This is absurd_, more absurd than the still missing self-sufficient journal.

"Ichigo?" Rukia repeated the name, trying to wrack her brain if he was, in any way, familiar. But after few minutes of struggle, she finally concluded that she never heard his name before.

'_What are you talking about? It is my house. Are you-?_' Rukia bit her lip and thought for a moment before she continued. '-_are you ghost, Ichigo_? _Are you haunting this attic? _

Is this even logical?

Rukia backed for a moment and read the absurdity of her question. But then, the absurdity of her question was nothing compared to the absurdity of the situation.

And well, logic dictated that he _might_ be a ghost.

"_Ichigo, I can call spiritual experts_.'

…

"What?!" Ichigo exclaimed angrily. "I'm not a damn ghost!"

Ichigo stomped and reached for a working pen and begun to write.

'_I'm not a damn ghost!_' Ichigo wrote on the note furiously. But then, he put a strikethrough on the word 'damn' in case the girl was easily offended.

For a moment, he forgot that he was talking to a mystery –she may or may not be a person.

What the hell was this? He wouldn't be caught dead talking to a -may or may not be- an imagination.

…

"He's definitely a ghost." Rukia sighed and felt a shudder. "A lost and in denial ghost."

It was 11 pm. There was no light and the attic looked more eerie than usual. Rukia suddenly thought that Ichigo the ghost might be breathing his ghostly breaths on her neck. Rukia felt another shudder.

Rukia forced herself to write, '_Ichigo. You can tell us who killed you_. _Maybe you just don't know it yet. Believe me, everything will be all right. Just please let me call the spiritual experts_.'

Rukia can't believe she was talking and offering help to a ghost. _Were any of these even real_?

She hoped Ichigo the ghost was not a violent type.

…

"Arghh!" Ichigo almost punched an innocent wood plank. "I said I'm not a ghost!" He shouted to no one in particular.

Ichigo glared at the note and crossed his arms. "Why won't you take me seriously?" He considered not answering her.

_Is this all a prank_?

He stopped responding to her. She doesn't seem harmful. _Right_. This whole thing was not real.

He's going to burn the canvasses the next chance he got.

"Karin!"

**…0…**

Ichigo went back to his daytime activity for two whole days. He carried with him his journal all around and he kept his oil lamp locked in his closet.

Carrying his journal did earn him looks of inconvenience. Karin sneered at him for carrying a notebook and taunted him about writing love notes. Yuzu gave him concerned looks. But apart from those, nothing else bothered him.

Unless he refrained from treating the note and other-worldly exchange with his creepy journal thief as a pink elephant in the room, nothing else bothered him.

Nothing else bothered him except their house cat.

Kon the cat was behaving unusually unusual for a supposed restless cat. Kon never left the attic. Ichigo was so sure the attic was already devoid of pest and dust even before the once-stray cat got in their house –there was actually no kind of pest whatsoever since Yuzu decreed herself as the leiter of house cleanliness.

For a cat, Kon was incredible vain. Cats don't look at mirror for two whole days with their tails held high. Every time Ichigo go up to check on the attic, Kon was there, purring loudly at the mirror and scratching at the clear glass. As if he saw mice inside the thin glass. Other times Ichigo would catch him rubbing his face on various objects in the attic, or wiggling his rear then repetitively pouncing on the mirror.

It was Saturday morning and Kon would _not_ shut up; his wails were the loudest Ichigo ever heard.

Ichigo irritably threw the covers from his bed and rushed out of his bedroom door to climb to the attic and locked the loud cat out of it.

**…0…**

Rukia went back to her daytime activities. For two days, she had not wandered anywhere near the attic, ever since Ichigo the ghost never answered back.

But strangely, she never felt some strange presence, or depressing entity looming the house.

But then, what if it was just hallucinations due to her solitary home? What if the journal and Ichigo the ghost never really existed and she was talking to a realistic figment of her imagination?

She doesn't understand all of it. Yet she tried to understand under what possible circumstance could that possibly ever happen? It was frustrating and taking it to her university professor would earn her trip to the university psychiatrist for depression and hallucinations.

It was Saturday morning when Rukia found something worse than the self-sufficient journal and Ichigo the Ghost.

The sun was barely out yet Rukia already found herself scrubbing and cleaning the attic furiously. If she wanted to live normally, she should start from the source of her mind stress –the attic.

And from the attic, the dirtiest part was the salon stand mirror and the small wooden stand where the antique telephone rest.

It took her dozen scrubs until she managed to scrub the thick muck layer of the mirror off. A few splashes of cleaning agents, then scrub, then splash, then scrub.

A part of the glass slightly cleared and it was then that Rukia saw a large, blurry orange cat peering at her from the mirror –_within the mirror_. Its eyes were beady brown and large, and Rukia knew the cat was staring straight at her. Both of its paws were scratching the mirror rapidly. And the cat was purring loudly at her but she could not hear it.

Rukia stopped scrubbing the mirror and looked at her own surprised and alarmed reflection to the blurry, purring orange cat –the mirror cat.

Then it hit her, there was always a cat purring whenever she was inside the attic.

Rukia was halfway processing this when all of a sudden, the antique candlestick telephone without the modern line connection rang with a deafening _riiiiiiiiiiing_.

**…o0O0o…**

_To be continued_

**Author's Note**

I may edit. When I'm more awake and my eyes aren't half-droopy, I may.

Thanks for reading.

-_appleschan_


End file.
